


Good Boy

by ceywoozle



Series: One Word Bottomjohn Prompts [71]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Crack, I don't know what else to say about this, M/M, like...just crack, this is probably the best thing i've ever written
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-05
Updated: 2016-02-05
Packaged: 2018-05-18 06:54:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,490
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5902717
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ceywoozle/pseuds/ceywoozle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There's something going on at Baker Street...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Good Boy

There are voices, and for a second John thinks that someone is up there. A client, he thinks, but there's something weirdly familiar about the rumbly baritone coming from 221B. It sounds like Sherlock except…

_“Who's a good boy? Who is such a clever boy?”_

_“I am! I am a good boy!”_

John stops, three stairs from the landing, and wonders if he's gone mad. The door into the sitting room is closed and all he can make out through the textured glass is a vague silhouette in motion.

_“Such a clever, good boy!”_

_“Clever and good!”_

Sherlock's voice is high and soothing, the exaggerated tone one takes with small children and animals. Except that the second voice, the one replying, certainly _sounds_ human, but it too is weirdly pitched, oddly whistling and not quite right to be a child. And besides, the idea of Sherlock actually speaking to some random child in their flat is too bizarre to contemplate. Roleplay then? He debates turning back around. If Sherlock is up to something with someone…

But no. Surely if Sherlock was into that sort of thing he would have told John. Surely he would have figured out a way to coerce John into playing out whatever fantasies he had even if John was in any way unwilling.

That would only really leave animals (Sherlock can be slightly stupid about the occasional reptile). However, that still leaves the mystery of the second voice. John's never known a lizard to talk back.

That leads him back to some kind of roleplay. Could their sex life have really have been failing that badly without him even noticing? Maybe Sherlock just didn't know how to tell him. Maybe this was his strange Sherlock way of going about it, letting John know without having to let John know, prefacing any kind of personal exposure with as much reciprocal hurt as possible because that was the way Sherlock's brain sometimes worked.

It's clear, John thinks as he stands three steps from his flat and contemplates his life choices, that he really is as stupid as Sherlock thinks he is because he honestly can't think of anything else that would take all the facts into logical account. But he hopes he's wrong. He really, really hopes. So he braces himself and goes forward. But he does make sure to walk softly.

Slipping quietly in through the open kitchen door he considers peering around the corner first to prepare himself, but something about pulling the bandage off quickly makes him stiffen his spine and simply step out. He's ready for this, he thinks. He's ready for anything. There is nothing about… whatever this is that will surprise him.

“Sherlock? What—”

Sherlock actually jumps. John thinks this is the first time he's ever actually startled the man. “John! Oh. Um.”

“Sherlock. What.”

“It's for an experiment,” Sherlock says quickly but his face is a bright crimson more normally seen on John (usually because of something Sherlock's said or done) and he is clearly nervous, his eyes shifting from John to the large cage on the table in which there is…yes. A bird. A parrot possibly. John has no idea.

“Sherlock. No.”

This is the wrong thing to say. He can see Sherlock bridling, every instinct he has automatically ready to do the exact opposite of what anyone else says just because.

“He's a _Psittacus,_ John. And I already said, it's for an experiment.”

“It's a parrot, Sherlock, and what possible experiment could you be doing that you need one?”

Sherlock somehow manages to look both shifty and defensive. “A _Psittacus,_ John. African grey parrot since you're clearly having trouble with long words again.”

_“What experiment, Sherlock?”_

Sherlock glares at him before his eyes shift guiltily away again. “It's highly technical and you wouldn't understand.”

“Oh my God. You named it, didn't you?”

“Don't be stupid, John. This bird is twenty years old, his previous owner has already given him a name.”

 _“Previous_ owner?”

“His name is John.”

“Oh my God.”

“Well. Long John Silver.”

“And you couldn't call it _Silver_ or even _Long_ instead?”

Sherlock looks at him contemptuously. “Don't be ridiculous, John. How would it look if we told people we had a parrot named _Long?”_

“Probably better than if you told people you had a parrot named John! Jesus bloody Christ I can't believe I'm having this conversation.”

 _“John mustn't swear!”_ the parrot suddenly says.

John glares at it. Then glares at Sherlock.

 _“It_ is not staying."

“Please?”

“No.”

“It's called _John,_ John.”

_“I'm a good boy! So clever!”_

“That's not actually a reason, Sherlock!”

_“Sherlock loves John! John loves Sherlock!”_

“Oh my God.”

“Please?”

_“John is a good boy!”_

“I hate you.”

_“John loves Sherlock!”_

“Can't you shut it up!”

“John, hush,” Sherlock says sternly at the parrot in the cage. It clacks its beak at him defiantly but goes quiet. “You said I needed a hobby,” he says to John.

John stares at him. “This is not a hobby, Sherlock, it's a _life._ An actual _living_ thing!”

“I'm good at living things.”

“Only when it's interesting!”

“Don't be stupid. I'm with you, aren't I?”

“I hate you.”

_“John loves Sherlock!”_

“Oh my God.”

“Please, John?”

John stares at him. Stares at the bird which is staring back.

“We're calling it Silver.”

“But—”

John glares at him.

“Fine.”

“Fine.”

“Fine?”

“Fine!”

“I love you.”

“I hate you.”

_“John loves Sherlock!”_

“Oh my God.”

 

* * * * *

 

John shouldn't be surprised when he and Sherlock wake up the next day to find Mycroft in their flat, but John still sighs and rolls his eyes and very pointedly doesn't make him a cup of tea.

Not that Mycroft notices. He's leaning over the cage, peering at the bird, who is peering back.

“Fascinating,” Mycroft says, pretending to be blissfully unaware of Sherlock who has picked up the newspaper and is now aggressively reading it in his chair and doing a terrible job of pretending that Mycroft isn't there either. _“Psittacus erithacus_ I believe.”

“It's a bloody parrot,” John mutters.

_“John mustn't swear!”_

“Yes, that's what I said,” Mycroft says. “Does it have a name?”

 “John—”

“Silver.”

John and Sherlock both glare at each other.

Mycroft looks between them for a moment and raises a delicate eyebrow. “I see.”

John wisely ignores this. Sherlock, less wisely, snorts and Mycroft's other eyebrow goes up.

“John, remind me to talk to Mrs Hudson about changing the locks again,” Sherlock snaps.

_“Mrs Hudson change the locks!”_

“I meant later, John, but thank you.”

“John, is it?” Mycroft says and John actually sees that narrow lip twitch and he makes a mental note to hide Billy the skull again. Possibly in the Thames. “Fascinating.”

“Bloody hell,” John sighs.

_“John mustn't swear!”_

“Yes, bloody thank you,” John snaps.

_“John mustn't swear! John loves Sherlock!”_

There is the smallest sound from Mycroft and if it were anyone else in the world John would have called it a snicker.

“Oh for fuck's sake,” John sighs.

_“Fuck! Fuck Sherlock! Yes! Yes! Oh fuck yes Sherlock!”_

The sudden stillness in the flat is deafening.

_“Fuck yes! Yes Sherlock! Harder Sherlock! Fuck me harder Sherlock! Fuck! Fuck!”_

“Sherlock!”

“John! Hush!”

“Oh dear.”

_“Harder Sherlock harder! Fuck yes Sherlock harder!”_

“Oh my God no.”

“John! Hush! I said _hush_ you idiot parrot!”

“Fascinating,” Mycroft mutters and his eyebrows are both as high as they can go and John wants to kill him but also Sherlock and he wonders what the chances are of getting away with it.

_“Harder fuck me harder! I love your cock Sherlock! Sherlock cock! Shercock! Shercock!”_

Sherlock is frantically waving his arms at the cage and the delighted bird inside and John swears the stupid thing is laughing as it clacks it beak and yells _“Shercock!”_ at the top of its range.

“What a very enlightening visit,” Mycroft says and he's hurriedly backing out of the room. His face is a bright red and as John watches him he very nearly trips on the edge of the rug before shutting the door behind him with a bang.

The second Mycroft disappears the parrot falls silent. John and Sherlock are frozen in a tableau as they listen with slightly horrified looks on their faces as the outside door bangs shut and moment later Mrs Hudson's voice floats up to them, “Don't think I didn't hear that, Sherlock Holmes! And don't think I'm coming up there again until you teach that bird some manners!” And then the sound of her door firmly shutting reaches them and everything goes silent.

John and Sherlock look at each other, then look at the bird. The bird looks back.

“Tea,” John manages to say even though he has an almost full cup in his hand.

And as he turns around to stumble slightly dazedly to the kitchen, he swears he hears Sherlock's voice, a soft whispering coo: _“Good boy, John. Such a good boy.”_


End file.
